King David's choice
by WriterKos
Summary: Be still and know that He is God. He doesn't owe you explanations.


**_Title: King David's choice_**  
><strong><em>Author: WriterKos<em>**  
><strong><em>Rating: FR13<em>**  
><strong><em>Parings: none<em>**  
><strong><em>Characters: Gibbs<em>**  
><strong><em>Genres: Drama, Character Study<em>**  
><strong><em>Warnings: none<em>**  
><strong><em>Summary: Be still and know that He is God. He doesn't owe you explanations.<em> **

The gray walls of stone and mortar of the small Catholic Church made a peaceful retreat from the chilling breeze of the autumn air. The trees had lost their full green color, acquiring a burning brown reddish tint as if their leaves were made of iron, slowly being consumed by rust as the days became colder and shorter.

Summer was long gone. Cold winds coming from the North would suddenly blow creating a vortex of leaves on the pavement, as if they were trying to go somewhere, but kept flying in circles, achieving nothing.

Walking in brisk steps a gray haired man in Franciscan clothing climbed up the steps of the sanctuary, nodding silently to the monk slowly lighting the candles before a huge panel depicting the Via Dolorosa. His leather sandals made a soft noise against the gray slabs of stone as he walked in sure steps towards a small wooden door hidden between the confession booths in the west wing.

He opened the door and entered a narrow corridor, completely devoid of light. He blindly sought the light switch, finding it somewhere to his left. Once he touched it diffuse lights shone on a stone stairway going up, destination unknown. He closed the door and grabbed a handful of his cassock and bundled it together, before slowly climbing the stone steps under the faint light coming from the naked bulbs hanging in the air.

Once he reached the second landing, he found another wooden door, which he opened with an old copper key he had hanging from his belt. As he stepped into that secluded room, the scent of wood and pine invaded his nostrils, bringing a faint smile to his lined face. After securing the room, locking the door behind himself, he took a few steps into the room and reverently approached the small stool before white and black keys.

He sat on the stool and took in his shaking gnarled hands a few yellowed paper sheets from a drawer somewhere to his right and silently opened the music sheets before himself. After adjusting his glasses, pushing it back over the bridge of his nose, he turned on the system of the organ before himself. The hiss of its power filled the room, before his fingers started playing the old keys.

Soon a haunting organ filled the church, adding to the ethereal feeling of timelessness of that sanctuary. When added to the burning of the candles and the faint scent of myrrh and incense, entering those walls had the same effect of stepping into a time vortex, where time held no meaning. Past and present meshed together as one single thing, forcing people to slow down their frenetic rhythm to a crawl. After all, that was the only way they would have the time to stop, kneel and lift their hands up to the heavens and recognize that there's more to life than the restless passage of time.

The first hymn was over and a new baroque melody, with its twirls, trills and repetitions filled the church as the main door moaned open, the hinges crackling with age.

A gray haired man in jeans and an orange sweater came in; his figure hunched under the chill of the wind outside. He rubbed his hands together to gather some warmth, his piercing blue eyes scanning the empty rows of the nave. He took a moment to breathe in the mix of burnt candle wax, myrrh and incense, feeling the serenity of the place slowly sipping into his bones, settling down his tortured mind into a calm buzz.

He started to walk, his booted feet rasping the stone floor, his always alert gaze immediately finding the monk still lighting candles, the majestic hanging organ a couple feet over the confession booths.

His gaze went momentarily to the delicate sculpted pillars, the hand-carved stone blocks to fit one into the other with perfection. His artisan eyes recognized the excellence of the work done, the masonry details in the ionic curls and twirls frozen in time.

Everything in that transept evoked timelessness, its vaulted arches bringing the eyes up, seeking the Almighty somewhere up high.

And that was what that man was seeking that day.

NCIS NCIS NCIS NCIS

Gibbs was not a religious man. His beliefs were simple, based more on the practical side of life than an ethereal view of what eternity might be like.

Existence seemed a harsh enough environment with its everyday struggles to add the burden and responsibility of getting things right here in order to guarantee safe passage to an afterlife that might or might not exist.

But days like today made him faintly wish that Shannon had been right. That there was good in this world and that, as reward, a benevolent God would grant these good people safe passage to a better place.

But how can one believe in God when bad things happen to good people? Why does He allow evil to win? And why He keeps silent when you scream for help?

He took a deep breath and started to lower his head to his hands, but froze as he found blood dried on his fingers and the cuff of his jumper. Flashes of the previous hours exploded before his eyes, forcing him to close them as he saw the standoff, the shooting, the desperate shouts of his team when one of them was hit, then the other, the firm hands pressed against weeping wounds and clear eyes fixed into his, filled in pain. Finally ending in the crazy ride in the ambulance to Bethesda and the countless hours waiting for news.

Yep, God must hate him.

Time is not divided by seasons, but by moments.

There are moments of infinite joy, such as the day you meet the love of your life and or the day you hold your infant child in your arms for the first time.

Ah, those days are thresholds. Boundaries of periods of unparalleled happiness that tend to become less frequent as age and wisdom comes by. Thus we should celebrate while we have them before our eyes.

But how can we identify these moments, these oh so precious moments of feeble happiness when they are lost in the swirl of ugliness that surrounds of our everyday lives?

How do we separate the good from the remarkably awful reality that stares mockingly at our faces, showing that the world is a cruel place and sometimes – almost always - shit happens.

Oh, and it always flies everywhere.

NCIS NCIS NCIS NCIS

Gibbs' morose thoughts must have been expressed in his usual stoic face because a few minutes later slow tentative steps sounded approaching him as he sat lonely in one of the rows in the nave staring at the intricate baroque panel depicting the suffering of the Crucified Christ.

"You seem troubled, child." The old priest said, standing calmly on the aisle and waiting for Gibbs to acknowledge his presence.

Gibbs' lips turned up a little, a self mocking light shining in his eyes when he glanced at the priest.

"Haven't been called child in a long time."

"We are all Children of God, son. We are equally blessed to be under his benevolent veil of compassion."

A flicker of despair passed on Gibbs face, before being buried into an emotionless mask, but the priest was perspicacious enough to catch it before it vanished under his controlled features.

"May I sit?" the old priest asked, waiting for the silently sliding to the side opening space for the robust figure of the man of cloth.

"I sense some disturbance in the force, Young Jedi." His words elicited a chuckle from Gibbs, who looked at the priest with surprised eyes, resulting in a light shrug. "I'm a priest, not a saint. I like George Lukas' films and he's remarkably accurate in some aspects."

"Such as?"

"The Force. It's a great metaphor for faith. You can't see it but you can see its results."

Gibbs kept staring at the priest, whose placid eyes endured the cutting glare coming from the blue eyes.

"Can't say I agree with that."

"You're not a man of faith, son?"

Gibbs shrugged and rubbed his hands together, bringing the priest's eyes to his bloodied clothes and hands. Gibbs expected shock or distrust, but found only a raised eyebrow silently asking its origins. Apparently, the priest had seen his fair share of violence and had not felt threatened by Gibbs.

"I'm… a Federal Agent. Bad op landed two of my team in the hospital." He lowered his eyes to his bloodied hands, a nail morosely scratching the dried blood on his skin. "Hard to keep faith when people you… care about are bleeding to death before you."

"I see." The priest muttered. "I think you're facing King David's choice."

Gibbs stopped scrapping off the dried blood and raised eyes to the priest, who placidly looked up to the beautiful cross hanging behind the altar.

"Not following you."

"Are you familiar with the story of David and Bathsheba?"

"Not a churchgoer." Gibbs shrugged dismissively, trying to see where the priest was going with that.

"King David was an important person. He was chosen by God to rule over his people and took several years of battle and struggle to reach the throne. Once he finally was sitting in the highest position assigned by God he was given everything a man could desire. Women, riches, victory in battle, endless concubines and many children. Yet he still sought God with all his heart and devoted himself to praise the Lord in all things so he became known as the man after God's own heart."

"So what?" Gibbs grunted, not really enthusiastic with the tale.

"Despite being a king, he was still a male. And one fine spring morning he decided to stay in his castle and saw a woman bathing in a neighboring house. It was Bathsheba. He lusted after her and convoluted a complicated plot to take her as one of his own." Gibbs raised his eyebrow, clearly indicating his impatience with the priest, who ignored it and kept going.

"A child was conceived from this adulterous relationship, and once Bathsheba, now a widow and new wife of the king, came to term, she gave birth to a sickly child. The King then was taught a very harsh lesson."

Gibbs sat back on the bench, looking at the priest who waited patiently for his audience to prod him for more.

"What lesson?"

"In the old testament, no man equals David in his close relationship to God. Maybe Moses comes in close second, as he briefly saw the Almighty himself and spoke to him face-to-face." The priest smiled gently, "Yet King David prayed, fasted, wept and cried for that child, pouring ash over his head and using ripped sacks instead of royal clothing." The old man turned wise eyes to Gibbs. "All that was for naught. The child died."

The priest stood up and put a supporting hand on Gibbs' shoulder, patting it lightly before starting to leave. Gibbs however wasn't satisfied with the story and grabbed the priest's wrist, stopping him before he took another step away.

"What happened then?"

The priest glanced down to the firm hand grasping his wrist, which immediately let him go self-consciously.

"King David had two choices before himself: rage and blame God, shouting to the heavens for the senseless death of an innocent infant who had no blame for the sins of its parents, forever turning his back to the Almighty in a pouting posture unfitting to a King, but quite common to us human beings nowadays or … he could accept it and start again. And again. And again."

Gibbs frowned at the priest, who looked up at the organ which still was playing another obscure baroque piece, filling the air of the transept with its melody. "God doesn't owe you explanations, son, simply for the reason he is God. He does what He does and it is up to you to keep fighting your good battles because that's what you're meant to be doing. King David could have stayed moping about his dead child but instead of following the Jewish tradition of mourning he raised from the ashes, washed himself, put on new clothes and asked for bread. Regardless of your eagerness to cry out to the heavens and moan about the injustice of what is happening or what has happened to you, you must make a choice: you can stagnate in a deep hole of self-pity or stand up, shake off the dust and keep going."

Gibbs stared sightlessly ahead, rolling the priest's words in his head. The old man patiently waited, aware that the man before himself was one of the wandering children God sometimes brought to his doors, seeing a meaning for the endless toils of the everyday life.

Finally his gaze cleared and lifted to the old priest's face, who smiled warmly at him.

"Now, son, it's up to you. The ball is in your court. But remember, God doesn't need you to be God. Regardless he will still be God. But you need Him to be something more than a being breathing and endless wandering on earth without purpose. What will your choice be? _The child is dead_. And I'm not being literal here, as the **_child _**represents anything important in your life. It might be a family member, someone you care for in your work, a dream shattered to pieces or a girlfriend or significant other who simply decided to walk away, throwing out years of devotion as if they were just a piece of trash. **The child is dead.**" The priest leaned forward, his gray eyes fixed into blue ones, "**What will you do**?"

Gibbs' gaze never wavered from the priest, who smiled gently before tapping him lightly on the marine's shoulder, turning around and walking in sedate steps towards the altar. Gibbs kept watching the priest through his everyday routine, organizing the ornaments on the altar, lighting candles here and there, completely absorbed in the atmosphere of the sanctuary.

The music kept playing on, the myrrh kept burning and the candles flickered with every breeze that slipped into the nave when a door was opened somewhere in the transept.

Gibbs stayed there for another half hour, his gaze lost as his mind restlessly worked through his choices and his actions. Finally, his mind made up, he stood up and crossed the nave, approaching the small lateral wing where several candles were lit. He deposited one candle in the small box and took one of the matches, kindling one candle for each of his team members.

Then, with trepidation, he lit a candle for Shannon and for Kelly, remembering them without bitterness and helplessness for once. He stood there with the burning match between his fingers, staring at the flickering flames until the fire singed his fingers. He yelped and threw the now burnt match to the floor, stepping on it with his boot.

He sighed deeply and stuck his fists deeply in his pockets, turning around and crossing the nave of the cathedral towards its doors, his resolute steps echoing in the empty hall as the music still filled every corner of those stony walls.

The old priest turned and smiled as he saw Gibbs leaving the church, as he noticed a new spring in his steps and a strategic ray of light coming from the stained glass windows shining directly over him illuminating his path.

God indeed works in mysterious ways.

- THE END -

a/n: I'm not Catholic, but the atmosphere I wanted to evoke was inspired by several catholic churches I've visited in Europe. I've also corrected minor typos and corrected the name of the clothing of the priest. Sorry, I had no idea how to call it even in my language, much less in English.


End file.
